


FOUR SEASONS

by spicyshimmy



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-22
Updated: 2011-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:59:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyshimmy/pseuds/spicyshimmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Concerning Feynriel's robes and Connor's appreciation, four short vignettes inspired by Naiadestricolor on tumblr. <i>Feynriel’s hair is getting long, longer than his mother’s, and sometimes—when the summer heat proves too much to ignore—he balls it beneath his fingers, twisting it between his thumbs, braid coiled like the knot at a sash.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	FOUR SEASONS

I.  
Feynriel’s hair is getting long, longer than his mother’s, and sometimes—when the summer heat proves too much to ignore—he balls it beneath his fingers, twisting it between his thumbs, braid coiled like the knot at a sash. Wisps of hair float free against the back of his neck, tickling his skin.

True elves don’t sweat, but Vincento the merchant did, peddling his wares in the Lowtown Bazaar. The same sun shines over Kirkwall as over Antiva, and even Tevinter—beyond the range of the Hundred Pillars, a place separate from the rest of Thedas—shares that sun.

The sand bleaches white, and Feynriel tugs at the front of his robes, skin damp beneath the slim weave.

‘You won’t catch me with my hair that long,’ Connor says, flicking a quill through his fingers. The barbs and the afterfeathers spin so quickly the color blurs, until the calamus catches at Connor’s thumb, a streak of ink between the top joint and his cuticle.

Feynriel traces the Imperial Highway on the map before him, from Marothius to Minrathous and Val Dorma in between. He knows the best silks come from Perivantium, the finest pottery from Carastes, that his master hates Solas because of how far it is from any culture, too close to the Silent Plains. It’s a clear day, and he only has to look up from his cartography to see the blue stretches of the Nocen Sea, the same shade as Perivantium silks this season—which Connor’s wearing, however ungracefully.

‘And here I thought you liked braids,’ Feynriel replies. He lets his hair fall over one shoulder, and shrugs when he realizes Connor’s still staring.

II.  
Cool breezes blow in off the tide; fell winds from Par Vollen, perhaps, now that the weather’s turning—though when Feynriel’s master suggests it, his guests laugh, some louder than others. They hide their lips against the rims of their glasses, and their jewelry tinkles softer than any taproom toast.

 _Flattery_ , his master says, _pure as anything in the Imperium, though never simple_. It comes in more shades and shapes than even dreams, a collection of feathers from different menagerie birds, or the collection of cocky robes gathered at the long table.

Feynriel sits beside a brazier, next to a flute girl, hiding a yawn behind the palm of his hand.

‘New robes?’ Connor asks.

‘You too,’ Feynriel replies.

Connor tugs at a length of cord wound around Feynriel’s arm, loose and soft, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. The brown leather is smoother than silk; Feynriel knows because he touched it the same way, rolling it along his fingertips, fine as butter. With time, the ale-brown will fade to something bleached by the sun and softened by the wind, worn down by the insistence of curious fingers to feel and fuss and change.

‘You didn’t tie it right,’ Connor says, looping it the proper way around, too quickly to catch. ‘You _do_ know you look like a _vision_ in that, right?’

Feynriel purses his lips and asks, ‘Why _else_ do you think I wear it?’

III.  
Even Feynriel’s winter robes are sleek, subtle, low around his ankles and hiding his boots. The high collar makes it hard to swallow; he sits at his lessons with a stiff back, chill fingers tucked into the hems of his sleeves.

Minrathous doesn’t suffer the snow and the wind, in the basin formed by the Valarian Fields, cool months mild and balmy until nightfall. The days are too short, and the nights too long, and Feynriel keeps the clasps done all the way up, sitting by the fire even though he’s used to colder weather.

‘Feynriel,’ his master says, with a shake of his head. ‘It isn’t the night you have to fear. People dream even without darkness.’

It’s easy to remember, but difficult to learn. Feynriel pretends it has something to do with being Antivan, at least by half, and not that he misses heavy falls of snow, the way they blanket the streets in silence.

He doesn’t miss balls packed hard with rocks in the center, handfuls shoved down the back of his shirt, petty reminders of who he was and how he never belonged. He wouldn’t have cared being called knife-ears, but even the elves wouldn’t have him, dumping icy piss onto the street before him in the gathering dark.

Connor visits more than he should, coming by lamp-light, the glow behind the paper swinging down the road.

‘It’s just not the same,’ he says, toeing a shapeless heap of white sand with his boot. He spent so long building it, rolling it through the garden while Feynriel watched unimpressed, but now that he’s managed something, it doesn’t please him, not even for a moment.

Feynriel touches the tip of one forked branch, their rings pressed into the top for eyes, but it’s no snowman, spindly arms thrown out from a formless body like a defeated shade shrinking back into the earth.

IV.  
Little flowers grow between the cracks in the stepping stones that border the vineyard, and the birds return to their bowers as though they never left. Feynriel loops the laces around his sleeves, tightening the ties at his back; the fabric narrows at his chest and pinches at his waist, and when he catches sight of himself in the mirror he cocks a brow, mimicking one of Connor’s expressions, then pursing his lips.

‘Before you say anything,’ Feynriel says, as they settle in to their reading side by each at the polished table, ‘I think you forgot to shave this morning. …And for the past three months.’

Connor rubs at the fuzz on his jaw, chin fitting into the curve between his thumb and forefinger. The hair there is finally starting to darken, even if it’s nowhere near as glorious as Hawke’s beard. It looks like the down in Feynriel’s favorite pillows, just as tentative and just as soft.

‘You’re one to talk,’ Connor tells him, and loops the end of Feynriel’s braid against his palm, pale hair falling against the shadows and the ink-stains, like threads of silk tickling the life-lines.

Feynriel watches it fall away from Connor’s touch, too fine to hold onto, and Connor clears his throat.

‘I _still_ think you look like an Orlesian noblewoman,’ Connor says, from behind his book.

His voice sounds strained, tempered by the binding, colored by a blush.

‘ _I_ still don’t care _what_ you think,’ Feynriel replies, even though that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

 **END**


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